


Harem

by lovelessly



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Harems, Historical, Intercrural Sex, M/M, Oral Sex, Shota, just lots of sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-10-06
Updated: 2013-11-16
Packaged: 2017-12-28 14:47:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/993161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovelessly/pseuds/lovelessly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"But open your angel's arms to this stranger in paradise... and tell him that he need be a stranger no more."</p><p>I admit, I just want to write a lush and barely accurate harem fic, based on Japanese fanarts of these two. Once again, this is shota, even though I characterize France as being a fully knowledgeable and consenting person in a preteen/teen body. Also for some reason they are not 100% sure the other is a nation... Also I am trash.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Welcome

It took a while to find the rat skulking around the palace, but Sadiq prided himself on his hunting skills, and before long, he had backed the thief into a corner of a storage room full of rugs. The thief attempted to make a dash for it, only to be blocked by the arms of his captor, who promptly hauled him off to his own quarters.

Sadiq set the struggling child down, keeping a firm grip on a thin grubby wrist. Without a word, he pulled the veil off of the child’s hair, and then stared dumbfounded once he realized exactly who he had caught. Not a brat from the women’s quarters, not a servant, but a foreigner, no more than fourteen years of age, with long blond hair and deep blue eyes and skin pale enough to evoke a concubine’s envy. His first thought was that this must be an errant offspring of the European traders established in the city’s ports, but judging by the child’s filthy condition, it was more likely they were an escaped slave. Troublesome, either way.

“Can you understand me, child?” Sadiq asked quietly, and the boy or girl stared back at him blankly, not understanding. He repeated the question, but in Greek, and that seemed to elicit some comprehension as the phrase was mentally translated and followed by a nod.

“Good. I won’t hurt you, so calm down, okay?” Further questioning revealed the child was actually a boy despite his pretty features, orphaned and from France. Breathlessly, the boy related how he was separated from the acting company he was traveling with a few weeks ago, and some scary men found him, but he ran away while they were arguing and hid in a shipment of jars before ending up in the palace cellars. Rubbing his chin thoughtfully, Sadiq had to wonder how the boy had managed to escape the traders in the first place, who would not let such a valuable commodity out of their sight. A young slave from France, or any of the countries to the far north and west of Europe, were especially hard to obtain, and would bring outrageous profits to the trader lucky enough to find an unscrupulous merchant willing to separate a peasant child from their family. Sadiq could only hope they had given up finding this one because the more he stared at the boy standing before him, the more he wanted him for himself.

“Well, I won’t question you any more tonight,” Sadiq said. “Rest in my quarters for now while I decide what to do with you. And if I catch you stealing any of my things, I’ll cut off your hands, just like that.”

The boy nodded his head vigorously to show that he understood.

Chuckling, Sadiq reached down and patted the golden curls. “My name is Sadiq Adnan, little one.”

“Francis Bonnefoy,” the boy replied, smiling sweetly.

Angels above, but he was adorable.

 

Sadiq knew better than to ask an official directly about a potentially dangerous matter, and so he directed his inquiries to their trusted slaves. It was a high-ranking eunuch of the harem who told him that Sadiq’s status in the sultan’s army would most likely grant him protection if he wished to claim the escapee as his own servant, though it would also depend on how desperate the merchants were to reclaim their goods. The eunuch paused, a curious look in his glittering black eyes, and asked if this boy was worth the danger. Smiling, Sadiq said that yes, he was, and that was why he hoped to call on a favor from the head of the harem herself, the sultan’s mother.

Once the eunuch relayed this intriguing story to the sultan’s mother, Sadiq did not have to wait long before he was requested to bring the slave to the harem, where he would always be welcome if refuge was required. Sadiq must, of course, find other means to defend himself.

He returned to his quarters, finding Francis fast asleep in his bed. Sadiq’s hand wavered uncertainly over the boy’s shoulder, and then he decided to draw back the covers, wanting to see more of this rare and fascinating foreigner with his own eyes. Ever so gently, he felt the skin of the youth’s hands, slightly callused, but with perfectly maintained fingernails, obviously having worked before, yet used to a life of relative luxury. His gaze swept over the thin body obscured by a tattered white knee-length tunic, and he let his fingers trail across the boy’s soft cheek. Francis started at the touch and his eyes shot open, but upon seeing he was safe, he closed his eyes and nuzzled at Sadiq’s palm gently.

“Does he even know what he’s doing to me?” Sadiq wryly thought to himself, trying to keep the sudden flare of heat in his loins under control. But he could not indulge in this contact for too much longer, and Francis needed to be fed and cleaned up under the close eye of the harem servants.

“Francis, I’m taking you to the women’s quarters,” he said softly. “The sultan’s mother, the head of the harem, wishes to see you. If you behave well, then she will grant you protection, even though you are my servant, and not the sultan’s.”

Francis’ eyes widened at this explanation, and he asked, “Will I have to stay in the harem? I want to stay with you, Sadiq.”

“Well, if that’s what you want, then sure.” He certainly had no objections. “But it’s just that you are a very special child, and the harem is the safest place for you to be.”

“Oh, you mean those scary men, they might try to find me and take me back.” Francis shuddered, and Sadiq just barely managed to resist the urge to embrace him. For now, he handed the boy some fruit to eat until the evening’s meal, and bade him cover his hair before they left to meet the dowager.

 

It was with some reluctance that Francis separated from Sadiq’s side, and the older man laughed and promised to return for him later that night. Abandoned, he had no other choice but to follow the tall dark-skinned eunuch to that part of the palace forbidden to men. They passed by beautiful white halls decorated with dazzling mosaics and curtains woven in deep jewel-like hues, so much more extravagant and luxurious than the cold castle keeps he called home. He tried but could not keep track of the twisting turns they followed, and at last they reached the airy rooms inhabited by the concubines and their children.

To Francis’ surprise, the sultan’s mother was European, probably Hungarian, and she spoke to him in flawless Greek, commenting that he was very blessed in all ways. Then the youngest of the concubines were summoned, and they led him to their private baths, where they scrubbed him clean of weeks of grime, dousing him with warm scented water and drying him with soft towels. One of them was Venetian and could understand some French, and so he revealed the most important parts of his story to her as she and her colleagues brushed his hair and dabbed fragrant attar of roses onto the skin of his wrists and ankles.

Though he tried to not stare too openly, Francis was overwhelmed by the variety of feminine beauty among the concubines, none of whom were the typical shrouded Muslim women he had expected to see. There were the intellectual Greeks and friendly Italians, along with elegant Slavs and fiery-tempered Balkans, and even one or two exotic women from Egypt and the Orient, a veritable collection of lovely birds and butterflies forever trapped in a gilded cage. As the girls led him to the dressing rooms, bundled in a robe finer than even his prettiest gowns a lifetime away in Europe, he caught a glimpse of a group of children playing in another room, and vaguely wished he could join them. But he was older than they were, far older, and his life was already caught up in a struggle for power that not even the concubines could comprehend in their petty daily rivalries.

The girls picked out an outfit for him while he ran exploratory fingers over the silks and embroidered velvets and damasks and furs, marveling at the colors and textures. But when they showed him what he was to wear, he frowned.

“This looks like a Greek’s tunic,” Francis muttered, and giggling, the women assured him that the captain’s preferences ran thus. They slipped the silky fabric over his head, and he attempted to sit still as they cooed over him. If the boy had turned up as their rival, then there would have been some trouble, but as he was not for the sultan, the concubines were more than happy to treat him as their doll.

There was only one moment of awkwardness, as they were braiding pearls and lilies into his hair and sliding gold and jewels onto his fingers and ankles, when Francis innocently asked if they were happier here than they were in their homelands. Perhaps it was best that there was no French woman among the concubines, for they all eventually agreed, that yes, the palace life was far better than what they would have experienced at home, where they would have been stuck in a life of poverty and drudgery, their bodies drained from work and giving birth.

“But you are slaves!” he protested, feeling somewhat angry at their compliance, affronted that they would prefer a Muslim’s decadence to an honest Christian life. “Don’t you want to be free? I would! How can you possibly be content being imprisoned like this?”

And they answered sadly that being born a female had already ensured their future as a slave, by name or by fact, and that a man’s pretty words have not and will not change reality. This was the best they could ever hope for, and not being able to see the outside world was worth escaping the fate of their mothers and sisters.

Francis mulled over this as the Venetian girl brought him his meal and set the dishes out on a beautiful table inlaid with chips of precious stones. But he was too hungry to feel betrayed any longer, and ate and drank everything that he was given, finding the food and drink rich and delicious. The young concubine lingered by his side, occasionally answering his questions about the meal, and finally she cleared her throat and asked if he knew anything about how to please a man.

Chewing thoughtfully on a sticky sweet, he decided to be honest and replied, “Yes. Basically. Is there… something I should know?”

The girl smiled and nodded serenely. While the women of the sultan’s harem were not exactly free to wander the palace as they pleased, Francis discovered that their combined knowledge of certain persons and their predilections, gleaned from servant’s gossip, was vast and horrifyingly detailed.

“I-I see… Thank you for warning me, I… shall do my best.” Francis did not consider himself prudish on this particular matter, and he had his own range of experiences, some more pleasant than others… but this would take some getting used to.

 

Once it was time to leave, the concubines giving Francis farewell kisses and hoping he would come back soon, the eunuch handed him a bundle of the rest of his clothing, draping the kaftan over his shoulders, and then a dark hooded cloak over that. Silently, the eunuch loped off to the rest of the palace, and Francis ran after him, eventually pulling the flowers out of his hair and stuffing them into a random vase or jar. By the time they reached Sadiq, masked and hooded and smoking a pipe, Francis looked rather disheveled and breathless. But he returned the other’s toothy smile, and did not object to having his hand held as he was led to back to his living quarters.

“They’ve obviously given you a bath. Did they feed you as well?” Sadiq asked as he removed his hat and mask, setting his pipe down on a table.

“Yes. They treated me kindly, though I am glad to see you again, Sadiq.” Francis watched warily as the older man proceeded to remove his kaftan and tunic, until he was shirtless, wearing only the baggy salvar trousers and his shoes. Smiling lazily, a desert lion used to getting what it wants, Sadiq sat down on the edge of his bed and motioned Francis over, eager to unwrap the present the harem had given him.

Before he could lose his courage, Francis blurted out, “They told me you would free me, if I served you well.”

“When you reach your majority, I’ll definitely free you,” Sadiq murmured, ready to make heedless promises in exchange for a night of pleasure. Somehow, Francis looked even more worried than before, and he shifted nervously from foot to foot as the other man let the cloak fall to the floor, and then opened the front of his kaftan. Chuckling to himself at the choice of costume, he slipped the robe off of the boy’s arms, and watched indulgently as the boy suddenly shivered, the material of the tunic thin and draped artfully over only one shoulder.

“Come into bed with me, Francis, and we shall warm ourselves.”

“Is that what I have to do for you? Keep you warm in bed?” Francis asked curiously as he crawled into the bed, and Sadiq nodded and let the curtains fall back into place. Something like that, anyway.

Gathering the delicate body into his embrace, Sadiq brought Francis’ chin up and kissed him deeply, pleased to feel him respond with enthusiasm. He licked and sucked at the boy’s lips, letting his hands roam over the smooth cool skin, warming him with his own body heat, which had only increased as Francis occasionally wriggled in his lap. When they finally paused to take breath, Sadiq grinned to see Francis blushing and smiling coyly up at him.

“Hey, you’re pretty good,” he whispered, kissing him one last time before untying his belt and undoing his tunic. Francis squeaked as he was disrobed and then pushed back against the mattress in one smooth motion. Before he could protest, Sadiq had already pounced on him, smothering his face and neck and arms with open-mouthed kisses, disregarding the bracelets and jewelry decorating his limbs.

It was not the first time Francis had found himself in such a position, and Sadiq may have guessed it as well. But out of politeness’ sake, the older man did take the time to gently massage warmed oils onto the skin of Francis’ thighs, assuring him that this would be painless, and they would sleep afterwards, presumably to save the rest for another day. Not that he could deny Sadiq what he wanted, shutting his eyes when he felt something thick and hard plunge down between his closed legs and then thrust back and forth vigorously for what seemed like an eternity before something hot spilled onto his hips. Cautiously, Francis opened an eye, noticing Sadiq now reclining on his side, a satisfied smirk on his lips as he tried to catch his breath.

His grin only grew wider as Francis reached for his softening cock, gripping it lightly before bringing a wet finger up to his lips and licking it with a childlike curiosity. That gesture was nearly enough to make Sadiq hard again, but he controlled himself well, conscious enough to grab the abandoned tunic and wipe the mess off of the boy before falling asleep.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Actually no sex here, just more of the harem. My apologies in advance if I get details wrong, this is a three-year old fic.

In the flickering glow of oil lamps, Francis watched as Sadiq murmured something, a name perhaps, though not his, before rolling onto his back and drifting off into a relaxed slumber. His thoughts wandered aimlessly, resisting the oblivion of sleep, and the taste on his tongue brought up memories of a time long ago, spent under the rule of another empire. This time would be different, he told himself, and yet somehow it was starting to feel the same.

Smiling bitterly, an old smile that did not belong on a youthful face, Francis curled up close to Sadiq, resting his cheek against the broad, sweat-damp chest, not realizing when he drifted off to unconsciousness.

 

He woke the next morning to find Sadiq already dressing. Yawning, he stretched his aching limbs, the borrowed bangles making a slight tinkle and attracting the older man’s attention.

“Good morning,” the Turk said, eyes automatically drawn to the pale body sprawled naked on top of dark crimson sheets. Even with his hair tousled and his eyes hooded with sleep, the boy looked absolutely divine, and Sadiq prayed, blasphemously, that the sultan would not require his presence for long this morning.

“Did you sleep well, Sadiq?”

Sadiq nodded and gave him another measuring look from behind the eerie white mask that covered the top half of his face, and Francis returned it with a shy glance through his lashes. Chuckling, the Turk bent to kiss him, fiercely, a promise of more to come. “I should have guessed, but damn, you’re a natural. You really what you say you are?”

“Wh-what? Why would I lie about that?” Francis asked, eyes widening slightly in alarm.

“I don’t know. You… surprise me.” And he hated being caught off guard.

“But you like me, don’t you?” The way he asked that question, blue eyes wide and adoring, pretty lips parted halfway, made it hard to say otherwise.

“I suppose,” Sadiq admitted, because it was true, “although that doesn’t mean I trust you.”

“Oh!” Francis laughed, sounding relieved. “I feel the same!”

“Well, at least you’re honest,” he grumbled, his cheeks heating up for no particular reason. Sadiq ran his fingertips one last time over the smooth white thighs, squeezing the youth’s backside gently and letting go with a regretful sigh.

“I have to go now, kid. Behave. Or else.”

“Wait, you’re leaving without me?”

“Of course,” Sadiq snorted. “Personal slaves aren’t allowed in court. You’re going to stay out of sight and await my pleasure.”

“But I’ve always wanted to see the court,” Francis protested. “And the sultan, he must be very magnificent. Please, can’t I go with you? I promise I won’t cause any trouble.”

Sadiq smiled despite himself. “There’s really nothing to see, kid, just a bunch of bearded old men talking politics and money. Nothing like your fancy western courts. Come on, put on your clothes, you can entertain yourself at the harem until I come back for you.”

 

Having found himself dumped at the women’s quarters by Sadiq, as if he were an unruly brat that needed supervision, Francis cursed, not for the first time, the fates that decreed he should not reach physical maturity yet. Here he would be too closely watched to escape, and even if he could sneak out and find the way back to the palace proper without guidance, he would need a better understanding of the language in order to learn anything useful.

Perhaps he should have thought through this more carefully before escaping the caravan.

But… there were other ways of getting information. Francis was not fond of doing the legwork himself when he could just as easily charm it out of others. And this was one of the few times his seeming youth did work in his favor.

The eunuch bowed and left, and Francis glared at the tiled floor before marching into the corridor. He was promptly greeted by a bevy of the girls he had met yesterday, who chattered at him in their own languages, clearly meaning to ask him how his first night with Sadiq went.

Before he could try to answer, they were dragging him to the baths, and the Venetian girl joined them. It seemed that the first wife wanted to see him especially.

Francis was stripped of his cloak and kaftan, and then plopped into the pool, and he sat on the marble bench in awed silence, curls of steam obscuring his view of the first wife washing with her infant son. Another female servant departed with the prince, leaving them alone, and he heard, rather than saw, the soft splashing as the first wife made her way towards him.

“You must be captain Sadiq’s little blond prince?” she asked, her French musically accented by the Mediterranean.

“Madame, I am his new servant, Francis,” he replied, lowering his gaze respectfully, although it was rather ridiculous at this point, as they were both naked and sitting in a bath. She studied him with dark brown eyes, and then asked what he thought of his master.

“He is handsome and seems pleased with me. I… could have had worse.” And he had had worse, plenty worse.

“Very prettily said,” she murmured. “The captain is generous, but accustomed to having his way. From what I hear, he has recently returned from a long and difficult campaign overseas, starved for companionship, so I imagine he will be in need of your… presence, for some time.”

Francis tried to not wince at that, but the first wife must have caught his expression and raised an eyebrow curiously.

“Ah, um… I am grateful for his kindness… but… I just…”

She waited for his answer, an amused smile on her lips, and bit by bit, Francis tried to weave a believable story out of half-truths. Because technically, he was not lying when he said he did not expect to become a bed slave in the sultan’s palace when he began the journey to the east.

While he did not need her pity, he played up the part of a confused and bewildered orphan anyway, for the maximum benefit, and the concubine nodded in sympathy when he finished.

“Allow me to explain why I have summoned you,” she said gently. “Though the valide sultan and the head eunuch seemed to approve of your presence in the harem, they also asked for my opinion, because you are a stranger and suddenly thrust among us. Naturally, we are a little suspicious, and that is where my Roma heritage comes into play.” Francis paled at the mention of gypsies, but the first wife only grasped his hand in her own and held it up, tracing a fingernail thoughtfully over the lines on his palm.

“Your life has been long and troubled, your future clouded with countless decisions. Though I can not see your destiny, I sense that you mean no harm to the Ottoman Empire. You are welcome here, little prince.” The woman looked up into his eyes and gave him a knowing wink.

Staring at her in shock, wondering if his true nature would be revealed, he stammered, “D-do you know who I really am?”

“I have a guess. But your secret is safe with me. It is not important for anyone else to know.” She paused, then continued ruefully. “Though I think you want someone in particular to know, and unfortunately, I can not help you with that…” The first wife stood up, as if to leave, and Francis kissed the concubine’s hand in thanks, causing her to laugh as she bade him good luck and farewell.

It seemed that he would need that luck.

 

Unfortunately, Francis had little chance to collect his thoughts before the young concubines came and whisked him off to the dressing rooms. Drying his hair with a soft towel, he listened to their gossip and did his best to answer their questions about Sadiq, feigning embarrassment until they were breathless and near collapse from giggling. He could discover nothing useful, outside of Sadiq’s particular affinities, but at the same time, he felt more at ease, more familiar with this strange, wondrous, dangerous place. There was no particular hurry, and he had all the time in the world, Francis tried to assure himself. Of course, that only made his stomach clench even further in anxiety.

After his jewelry was exchanged for another dazzling set, this time lapis set in gold, the concubines swathed him in a blue silk tunic and a light ivory robe over that, all the while cooing over how adorable he looked. Francis protested, only once, that he was nearly a man, and therefore should not be considered adorable, but they merely laughed and offered honeyed confections and exotic fruits to quiet him.

With nothing else to do, Francis curled up among the plush cushions in the gorgeous main room, letting the Venetian girl tuck jasmine flowers into his hair, his senses dulled and soothed by the meandering music, the scent of incense and opium in the air. It was hard to disapprove of this lavish lifestyle, he thought sleepily as he watched the odalisques sway and bend like reeds in the wind, their bracelets and anklets tinkling with tiny silver bells in time to the drums. Nothing expected of these women and girls but to look pretty, to please a man, and maybe give birth to a son if she wanted power.

In his heart, Francis could not blame them, not really, and yet he ached for these beautiful strangers whom he barely knew. But it was not like he could even do anything for them, when he could not even make much progress into his own mission.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pointless smutty "shotacon," I am trash.

He was distracted throughout the entire session at court, so much so that the sultan noticed Sadiq’s wandering attention, and permitted him to leave for the day. Sighing in relief, he hurried to the harem’s outer corridor, grateful that his flowing robes hid the increasing evidence of precisely what had occupied his mind that morning. By the time the eunuch brought out Francis, clearly woken from a nap, Sadiq had to use every ounce of self-restraint to look nonchalant in front of the boy.

Following Sadiq obediently to his quarters, Francis stifled a yawn, looking about him with sleepy eyes. But a light breeze ruffling his hair brought him to a halt, and he suddenly darted off to a side hall to find the source of freedom. The Turk shouted for him to stop and ran after him, but Francis laughed and kept running, always a little distance ahead.

Walls of pink marble had been carved to show tantalizing glimpses of the outdoors, and the refreshing breeze blowing through the lace-like apertures seemed to clear Francis’ head of the hazy harem air. Though it did not entirely erase his giddiness when Sadiq finally reached out and grabbed him from behind.

“Don’t you run off like that again, y’hear?” Sadiq growled into his ear.

Francis giggled and twisted around to peck the older man on his cheek, who thought that was apology enough and kissed him back absent-mindedly, grumbling something about kids these days. Without another word, Sadiq scooped the boy up into his arms and carried him through the gate at the end of the corridor, into the wondrous pleasure garden beyond.

They passed by elegantly trimmed bushes and colorful beds of fragrant flowers, and the path below Sadiq’s feet, strewn with crushed marble and mica and semi-precious stones, was lined with graceful trees either blooming or bearing early fruit. For the first time in a long while, Francis felt the sun overhead, and he closed his eyes and happily soaked up its rays.

Beyond a small burbling fountain, Sadiq entered a hidden alcove screened by pomegranate trees, and there he gently set Francis down onto the jewel-bright grass.

“What are we going to do here?” he asked, slightly wary as the other took off his mask and stared at him almost hungrily. A shiver of dread, dread or excitement, ran up his spine, and Sadiq must have noticed it as well.

“Haven’t decided yet,” Sadiq answered, his voice low and throaty like the sound of distant thunder. “What do you think I should do, kedi yavrusu?” 

Francis glanced away, almost coquettishly, causing Sadiq to grin in anticipation. “In that case, I’ll decide for you.”

They kissed, Francis tasting like honey and almonds and figs, Sadiq something darker and smokier, and crushed jasmine blossoms released their perfume while Sadiq slid the robe off of Francis’ shoulders and laid it on the grass. Feeling the youth’s delicate hands skating over his back, plucking at his kaftan, he tried to hold back a smirk of triumph at how easy this was going to be.

In the privacy of the garden, Sadiq felt free to indulge his desires, and he could not resist sucking and biting at the body lying below him, lips and teeth latching onto a nipple through the sheer fabric and causing Francis to gasp in delight as he curled his fingers into the short black hair. He rolled the hard nub in between his teeth, wetting the material and causing it to cling to the boyish chest as he moved to work at the other nipple. His hands had already spread the gangly legs apart, pushing the tunic up and out of the way, and then the Turk tasted the succulence of those thighs, at once marking the alabaster skin with wine-red bruises. “This is mine,” each mark said, brutally clear.

Eagerly, Sadiq then took the small cock into his mouth, and the salt on the boy’s skin, the liquid wetting the tip, was as close to ambrosia as he could imagine. Somewhere above, Francis was making high-pitched breathy noises, tossing his head to side and trying to push the hem of his tunic back down in an effort to cover himself. As if he could hold the sensations back, no more than the tide could resist the pull of the moon.

“S-sadiq… Please, n-no more - ah!” and then Francis could do nothing else but moan loudly as the wild rush of pleasure centering below his belly caused his body to arc up, his head and shoulders sinking further into the grass. Sadiq’s fingers pressed deep into his thighs, holding him down effortlessly as he sucked out every last drop from his climax. Almost sobbing from the ecstasy, Francis gulped for air, one fist weakly rubbing at the tears in his eyes.

Pulling back, the Turk licked his lips, and then looked down with satisfaction at his work - the flushed childlike face, wide cerulean eyes glistening wetly, a slender body ripe and ready to be plucked. If only his other conquests yielded as sweetly as this French slave did, Sadiq thought, unfortunately, they were nations, and their people stubborn and fractious to a fault. But the pleasure of taking this child, whenever and wherever he wanted, should more than make up for his frustrations overseas.

He picked the dazed and panting boy up and settled him on his lap so that Francis’ legs ended up on either side of his waist. The tunic was promptly taken off and Sadiq’s eyes roved over the ravished nude before him, letting the sight swell and heat his aching loins.

Francis opened his mouth, but before he could protest, he felt a large callused hand at the back of his skull, pushing him to make contact with the man’s lips. He succumbed with the quietest of mewls, and gingerly wrapped his arms around broad shoulders. But Sadiq was not content with just kisses, and he slid a finger down the cleft of the boy’s ass, searching and then finding the entrance. In his lap, Francis jerked upward, breaking off the kiss with a surprised yelp.

“What? You don’t like that?” Sadiq chuckled to see Francis shake his head vehemently. He fingered him again, laughing as Francis whimpered and tried to struggle free.

“It feels weird… Please, stop,” Francis mumbled, sniffling unhappily.

“All right, some other time. But I’m gonna need your help now.” Without hesitation, he freed his prominent erection from his trousers and pulled Francis’ hand towards it. Francis stared at it in undisguised astonishment, nerves still tingling from Sadiq’s ministrations, but he curled his fingers around the throbbing cock, and pumped at it shyly.

“Like that?”

“Yes. A little more. Little harder.”

Using both hands, Francis squeezed the slick hot flesh a little as he neared the tip, feeling the organ twitch under his fingers, listening to Sadiq’s breathless approval. He sensed that the man was close, and quickened his rhythm. Sadiq reached out to grab Francis’ wrist, and grunted softly when he came, spurting over their hands before Francis could let go. As he did last night, Francis licked the sticky substance off of his fingers, and then proceeded to clean Sadiq’s hand as well, lapping up the cum with a small pink tongue before glancing up to catch his gaze.

Watching Francis, Sadiq was nearly about to praise him, but caught himself, realized that the boy was only doing what he was instructed to do in order to survive. The Turk settled for kissing him on the cheek, and promised to himself to take Francis outside another day, since he obviously enjoyed it, maybe buy him something pretty to wear. But for right now, he just wanted to lean back, close his eyes and rest a little---

“Hey, what are you doing?” Francis asked, bouncing a little on the other’s abdomen so that Sadiq winced in pain.

“I’m resting. Obviously.”

“Huh.” Francis tilted his head to the side like a bird. “I want to go play.”

Sadiq rolled his eyes. “Later, Francis. C’mon, lie down with me.”

“But I’m not tired.”

Without any warning, Sadiq reached up and wrestled him to the ground, causing Francis to shriek with laughter.

“Ah, I give in!”

“As you should, you brat,” Sadiq murmured, holding Francis close and wondering what had come over him. The great Ottoman Empire, Sadiq Adnan, acting like a foolish village boy mooning after a pretty girl, treating his own slave as if he were a foreign prince. Of course it didn’t help that Francis acted as if he really were a prince. He… should investigate that, Sadiq thought worriedly.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sort of an exposition chapter until I can think of something clever to advance the plot. I actually have no idea what I'm doing, I'm trash.

Even though he seemed to be sleeping, Sadiq was holding him too tightly and he could not free himself. Francis adjusted his position, trying to get comfortable and not end up with an aching arm. Bored, he was about to follow Sadiq’s example and take a nap when he heard a trill of birdsong on the highest bough of the pomegranate tree. He watched the bird preen its iridescent blue and purple feathers, and then whispered, “Sadiq! Look at that bird. Isn’t it pretty?”

“Is what pretty?” Sadiq grumbled sleepily. He sighed and squinted at where Francis was pointing. “D’you want it? I’ll have a slave catch it and put it in a cage for you.”

“N-no… It just reminded me of home.” With a pang of nostalgia, he remembered his own birds, and wondered how cute little Pierre number whatever was doing without him.

Sadiq patted his arm, smiling. “Well, if you want to see the bird again, you can always come back to the garden. Its wings are clipped, it can’t fly too far.”

“Oh…” Francis chewed on a lock of hair pensively, while Sadiq stretched beside him.

“Come on, time to go back.”

 

It would be another two hours before they served the evening meal, and Francis thought he was going to die of boredom at this rate. He almost preferred being on the run from the slavers, at least he did not have someone hovering over him at all hours of the day. Francis flopped onto the divan with a dramatic sigh, while Sadiq sat down next to him, smoking his pipe.

“You said you wanted to play, huh? I have a game here that might interest you.”

“You do?!” Francis sat up, immediately interested.

“It’s called mangala, a counting game,” Sadiq explained, as he reached under the couch and pulled out a rectangular board and a bag. He set the board on the cushion between them, and then used the bag to fill the interior set of twelve shallow wells with four smooth stones each, leaving the larger wells at the end empty.

The object of the game was to drop the stones from a particular well one by one into the wells to the right, trying to get as many stones into one’s designated end well, the mangala, and foiling the opponent’s attempt to do the same with their mangala. That seemed simple enough, but when combined with the minute subtleties in the rules, it took strategy to actually win, as Francis soon found out.

“How did you do that?” he seethed indignantly, looking at his paltry ten stones compared to Sadiq’s thirty-eight.

“It’s because you don’t plan ahead, kid,” Sadiq answered, grinning smugly from around his pipe. “Watch what I do and learn.”

The time passed by quickly for Francis, who had never played such a game and was determined to master it. Sadiq took this chance to ask Francis certain questions he had been contemplating, watching the boy carefully to see if he told the truth or lied. For here was a French orphan who apparently lived a life of relative luxury and could speak Greek fluently, and such a lifestyle and education could only mean Francis had been pampered as a child. The main thing that concerned Sadiq now was the severe lack of concerned guardians searching for him; perhaps they thought he was dead.

“Francis… what were your parents like?”

“Um…” Francis chewed his lower lip thoughtfully as he dropped the stones into the wells with a light clink. How could he describe someone like Gaul to a human, or even Rome or Germania? “I don’t remember them very well.”

“That’s fair.” But not the truth. “So who decided to teach you Greek then?”

At least Francis was prepared for this question. “The players I traveled with, they go to Italy and Greece during the winters and I learned the language there.”

“Hmm…” He had almost forgotten that the kid was an actor, which meant he was a liar, as far as Sadiq was concerned. Hopefully the troupe was able to find a replacement and gave up trying to find their missing member because Sadiq sure as hell did not plan on giving Francis back, ever.

“Your turn!”

Sadiq played, dropping the last stone in his handful into his mangala and taking an extra turn, much to Francis’ consternation. “And what did you do as a player?”

“Umm, I was just an apprentice. I helped with the costumes and props… and sometimes I acted if they needed me. Minor roles. I wasn’t very good.” He looked genuinely nervous now, and not just because he was going to lose again. Unable to help himself, Sadiq laughed as he finished the round.

“No fair, Sadiq, you were distracting me,” Francis grumbled as the Turk leaned forward and claimed his victory kiss.

“We’ll play again, and I won’t distract you this time.”

“You better not!”

Francis won only one round out of the next three, and not by a large margin, but he was so preoccupied with the game, he did not notice his hunger until a servant arrived with their food.

The meal consisted of lamb skewers, dolma, fruits and bread, and although Sadiq was, for all intents and purposes, Muslim, he offered Francis wine to drink, which was eagerly accepted. He watched the boy eat and drink, obviously using his best manners, and yet that was not enough to keep Sadiq from grabbing the boy’s hand and sucking the juice of the fruits off of his fingers one by one.

“Your food is really good. Almost better than mine,” Francis mumbled distractedly.

“What? You cook?” Sadiq asked, placing one last kiss on the inside of a sticky wrist. “Well, you should cook your French food for me sometime.”

“Yes, I would like that!” Francis giggled, pulling his hand back, and waited for Sadiq to refill his cup with more wine. He drained that as well, and the Turk decided it would be best to not give him any more for the rest of the night. As amusing as it would be to speak with him while he was drunk, sooner or later, he would get sick, and Sadiq was less than patient when it came to taking care of a sick child.

“You’ve been asking me a lot of questions,” Francis said softly. “Can I ask you something?”

“Sure, go ahead.”

“Where is your family? Why don’t you have a wife?”

Ah, the boy noticed that… He should be careful. “I am a soldier in the army. I don’t have time for a family. Don’t feel the need.”

Francis stared at him drowsily. “Aren’t your parents worried? About you not having a family?”

“I don’t have parents.” Most nations didn’t…

“So you’re an orphan like me?”

“…That’s right.” Sadiq washed his hands in a bowl of rosewater and then dipped Francis’ hands into the bowl as well, drying them off with the hem of his robe. “Feelin’ sleepy already?”

“N-no, I’m not sleepy.”

“Yes you are, you just yawned.” He tried to grab Francis around the waist and dump him into the bed, but Francis just held onto the edge of the table and started yowling in protest.

“Allah have mercy on me, you are the worst slave ever,” Sadiq grumbled, trying to pry Francis’ fingers off of the table before they knocked something over.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I honestly didn't know I continued this, but apparently I did. More exposition, and I hope I intended for France to be this terrible of an actor because wow, that means Turkey is really obtuse.

He did not open his eyes first, but listened carefully to the soft rustling, a viper on the hunt. It seemed that the boy had woken early and was now exploring the room. First the contents of the desk, rustling through parchments and scrolls, then the drawers, then the shelves. For what, he could not guess.

Sadiq quietly rolled to his side, to better reach the dagger hidden under the mattress. To be truthful, an empire had little to fear from a small human slave, but he was not one to take chances if the child should turn out to be something less innocuous. 

It seemed that Francis had found something to interest him, and he stilled and started to hum softly to himself, a pretty lilting song from his homeland. Curious, Sadiq opened his eyes, and what he saw made him smile.

“Francis, what d’you think you are doing?”

The boy whirled around in surprise, a wooden toy horse in his hand. “Ah! I-I was just looking around, and this thing fell off the shelf and I caught it. I was going to put it back, I swear!”

Sadiq had to laugh at his guilty expression. Not a spy nor an assassin after all, but a human child, even younger than he had guessed to still be playing with toys. He got up and crossed the room to where Francis was trying to put the toy back, plucking the toy away and placing it on a shelf.

“You can play with this if you want, but these toys are not yours to keep.”

“Whose are they then?” Francis promptly asked, clearly not bothered by the fact that he was not allowed to own anything as a slave. “They’re not yours, are they, Sadiq? You are a little old to be playing with toys.”

Snorting, Sadiq answered, “Of course they’re not mine, they belonged to some kid I used to look after.”

“Oh, you mean your little brother?”

“Yeah, something like that.” It would be a little difficult to describe the relationship of Greece and the other nations of the empire to himself, so he left it at that. Unfortunately, this only made Francis even more curious.

“Where is he now? Why isn’t he still living with you? Can I see him sometime? We could have been friends. You know, I used to have a little brother, too!”

“You sure ask a lot of questions for a slave,” Sadiq grumbled with barely hidden exasperation.

“Oh. I… I’m sorry.” Francis looked up at Sadiq with a strangely sad look in his blue eyes, and he impulsively wrapped his arms about his waist. “He is gone, isn’t he?” he whispered. “You must miss him.”

“He’s gone, but I’ll get him back someday. Don’t worry about that, little one.” He paused to run his fingers through the boy’s soft curls, allowing himself a moment to remember all of the fledgling nations he had tried to bring to his home, though they never stayed for long. If only Francis could stay and comfort him whenever he was alone, if only he could stop wishing for the impossible.

“Come on, let’s get back to bed, and think of happier things.”

There was no point in wasting time, and while Francis was still eager to please and not contemplating things such as rebellion and raising armies like certain other children in his acquaintance, Sadiq planned to take advantage of that.

And Francis was so, so happy to please, so Sadiq had to avail himself of the boy’s willing body, his soft and slender thighs that felt so delightful to the touch. If he were in a poetic mood, he would write something to the effect of tasting the sweetest and juiciest fruit in the garden of summer’s paradise, but as of the moment, his brain had turned to mash and he could not think of anything else other than how he wanted to do it again, eventually. Stroking the boy’s damp belly, he drowsily wondered how the boy would handle a cock in his mouth and came to the logical conclusion that he should try it out soon, for that would at least stop him from asking questions for a little while.

They lazed away the morning in bed, naked bodies intertwined while they dozed off their pleasant exhaustion. At last the waking world called to them, demanding they attend to matters such as food and drink. But there was still afternoon and evening, and a few hours of distractions would take up the time by then.


	6. Hamam

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Turkish bath smut. Also the last chapter I have written, probably no more new chapters in the forseeable future. Thanks again for reading.

Francis could not help feeling restless, longing for the cool vineyards of home, the company of his birds, the familiarity of the western nations that were his allies and sometimes enemies. Precious hours wasted here because his knowledge of the language was too tenuous, and though he had been picking up more words in Turkish, enough to understand a basic conversation, he could not speak anything other than the few words he recalled from the last crusades a century or more ago. And all of those had been heinous insults. Sadiq was the key, for without his intercession he would have never had entry to the harem, but now he needed access to the sultan’s quarters. To gather what sort of information, Francis could only guess, but he had been absent long enough from his own lands, exploring, and he needed knowledge of value before he could return to his king and queen. He had already known the Ottoman Empire was a force here in the world of the Muslims, a bustling center of commerce and culture with connections to Byzantium of old, a bridge between Europe and the rest of Asia. An alliance, if they could pull it off, between his kingdom and the empire could be incredibly profitable for France. Or it could be ruinous.

He brooded on this after their midday meal, trying to decide his next course of action, how best to find out what he needed to know and then get home to tell his bosses. It seemed Sadiq was thinking, too, as he smoked his pipe, looking distant. With a grin, Francis sidled up to him, wrapping his arms about the man’s waist.

“I’m bored, Sadiq,” he declared, pouting adorably.

Sadiq groaned. “What do you want? Those toys not enough?”

“I want to go out. Out of the palace, into the city.”

“You can’t go out. What if the slavers find you and take you back?” He didn’t want any possibility of losing Francis, that would be unacceptable.

“But I can’t stay here in your room or the harem forever!” he protested, kicking at Sadiq’s leg. “That’s not fair!”

Sadiq glared at him for his insolence, but he relented after Francis continued staring at him pitifully.

“All right, I’ll find out if the slavers are still looking for you. Maybe we can hide your hair, visit a place where they won’t likely be about. But only for a little while, and that’s it, you got it?”

“Yes! Thank you!”

Muttering to himself exasperatedly, Sadiq put on his robe, and watched as Francis slipped into his tunic and cloak. He was aware of how it looked, how he seemed to be obeying his little slave’s whims, and he could not be sure whether it was because the boy had exerted some powerful, possibly demonic, influence over him, or if he had become genuinely attached to Francis, or a little of both. Something about Francis, something unnatural, was definitely making him lose control. But as far as he could tell, he was harmless, and it would not hurt to make him happy.

 

After he conferred with his contacts among the imperial spies, Sadiq returned to the entrance of the harem, feeling a little better about the whole situation. From their reports, the caravans were en route for another raid in the Caucasus mountains, and what few slavers left in the city would not bother with one lost French child among the hundreds they have captured. 

He did not have to wait long, for soon Francis darted through the doorway, his hair bound in a scarf and covered with a hooded cloak, wearing a light tunic and trousers and red leather shoes.

“You look like a street rat. S’good.” Francis beamed at him, proud of his disguise, and Sadiq had to smile.

They wandered out of the palace grounds through covered walkways, past marble pavilions and minaret-topped halls. No one seemed to pay them any mind, busy as they were with their own tasks, and for that Sadiq was grateful. Francis did his best to not gape about like an idiot, and instead tried to absorb the wondrous details of the palace as best as he could.

When at last they made it out of the back gates, Sadiq allowed himself to relax.

“Where are we going?” Francis asked.

“To the hamam, the baths.”

 

Today the baths were occupied by the janissaries, troops culled from the ranks of captured nations and converted to Islam. There would be no need to worry about any slavers now, as janissaries obeyed their captains without question, and had no reason to be dealing with traders of human flesh in the first place. The cloud of hot steam greeting them at the entrance to the baths nearly took Francis’ breath away, but here and there were differences from the Roman baths and the ones in the women’s quarters.

Sadiq laughed at him when he hung behind and told him to undress, otherwise he would not get any cleaner. Thus clad in towels, one wrapped around his hair and the other around his torso, Francis sprawled out on a heated tiled bench in the center of the room, feeling somewhat self-conscious. The fierce-eyed janissaries looked him over appreciatively, commenting to Sadiq in their harsh voices, who retorted in kind. Francis could not quite catch what they were saying, but they all laughed among themselves, so he smiled nervously at them, keeping his eyes lowered.

After they had worked up a sweat and let their muscles loosen and relax, an attractive young tellak came by to show them to their alcove, made semi-private by a curtain hanging over the opening. The tellak scrubbed away at Sadiq’s bronzed skin, then lathering up the soap until it covered him from head to toe with bubbles. With a giggle, Francis reached up and scooped off a handful of the bubbles, blowing at it and letting the white froth dissipate into the humid air. After rinsing off the soap from Sadiq, the tellak turned his attention to Francis next, but Sadiq shook his head, and the slave bowed and quietly backed out of the alcove.

“C’mere, I’ll wash you myself,” Sadiq told him, with just a hint of jealous pride in his grin. Francis stood obediently in front of the other, who held onto him firmly as he scrubbed at every inch of his skin, hard enough to make him wince. He hadn’t been bathed so often since the days of Gaul, and the memory was not a fun one to relive now. Then it was time for the soap bubbles, which Francis actually enjoyed, at least until Sadiq undid the towel around his torso and set it aside on a shelf. Sadiq began washing him more slowly now, carefully, his hands sliding down Francis’ stomach and in between his legs with lingering strokes. He had to keep quiet, he knew, but Sadiq’s fingers were slipping in between his buttocks, massaging at his thighs, fondling him purposefully, until Francis’ breathing came out in a high-pitched wheeze, and he could feel his knees growing weaker.

“You need to be clean down here, too,” Sadiq murmured, pulling Francis closer to support him better, while his hands never stopped their teasing and stroking. He laid the boy on his back, spreading him out on the bench, pouring a cup of water from the basin over his soapy body until the bubbles floated off his wet skin and into the drains in the floor. The stimulation of the hot water trickling down onto his thighs was enough to make Francis whimper under his breath, and he bit his lower lip when Sadiq finally bent over him to take him into his mouth, his tongue and lips leaving no place unexplored. It was over quickly, Sadiq licking his lips when he finished, leaving Francis drained and limp. He would close his eyes to rest, letting his body dissolve into the stifling warmth, but Sadiq was telling him that he needed the favor returned. Sighing, Francis pulled himself up, watching drowsily as Sadiq rinsed the last of the bubbles from his body, his length fully erect between his thighs. Francis did not need to be told what to do, he had done this before, and he slid to the floor onto his knees, assessing Sadiq’s response as he reached out to touch the heavy cock in front of him. Only a few shy strokes later, the other man was already curling his fingers into his hair, the dripping tip of his cock pressed against his lips. Francis began licking at the salty drops welling from the head of Sadiq’s cock, every now and then pressing a sweet kiss against the heated, throbbing length. Impatient, Sadiq muttered a soft curse and pushed his cock in between the boy’s lips, forcing himself further in. His blue eyes fluttering open in surprise, Francis tried to make a protest, but could not be heard around the thick organ filling his throat, and so he did his best to relax and take all of Sadiq into his mouth, head bobbing as he used his tongue and throat to please his master. Sadiq growled softly, hips thrusting and jerking slightly as the pleasure began to mount in his loins. He came without warning, a wave of intense heat bringing him high and then leaving his body in a rush, and between his thighs, Francis was swallowing his cum in quick little gulps. The boy had somehow managed to swallow all of it, and Sadiq patted his hair approvingly when he looked up, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Are we done bathing now?” Francis asked, a bit petulantly. He had to wonder if this was why the Muslims bathed so often, even during the driest seasons, and more importantly, how they had the time conquer so many lands if they spent every day “bathing” like this. The thought was amusing, if puzzling, and certainly not something he would tell the French courts, at least... not now.

Sadiq chuckled again, and he swiftly wrapped their towels about them. “We're done for now. Shall we go home, little one?”


End file.
